


Words As A Way Of Thinking

by cassowarykisses



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dysfunctional Family, Dysfunctional Relationships, First Age, Gen, Kinslaying, Resentment, cultural erasure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-10-10 05:36:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10430268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassowarykisses/pseuds/cassowarykisses
Summary: Elrond holds on to his Doriathrim heritage as a captive of Maglor and Maedhros.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is an older work that I found recently on my hard drive. The notes I made tell me I originally wrote it for the Silmarillion Fanon Challenge, where I decided to reverse the fanon "Elrond considered himself Noldor" + "the twins called Maglor ‘father’".

Maglor and Maedhros teach them tengwar only.

Their mother had barely started their schooling when Sirion burned, but she held that all other skills would come once they had the patience to write. It had been one of the few times they had all had together, and Elrond and Elros had treasured it as surely must have. She had sketched out all the alphabets she knew, intent on teaching cirth, of course, since it was the language of her people, but also tengwar, since it was most widely used, and the Runes of Gondolin that their father favored (which a had small but stalwart following in Sirion, city of refugees that it was).

After Sirion, Elrond tried to keep up the cirth and the runes, but they faded and spluttered in his mind, slipping away like fish in a tide-pool. It was well enough anyway, he tried to reason with himself. There were only so many inksticks he could steal before Maglor would notice they were gone. It itched at him, when he could remember the brightly painted signs of Sirion, in three different alphabets, but could only picture a blur of color without substance.

Those signs had burned with Sirion, and Elrond had stood there, Maedhros’ sword to his throat and grasping, sobbing, for Elros’ hand as he watched his mother turn from Maglor’s shouted demands (though Maglor himself would always hold that they were pleas) and throw herself down, down, down from her tower past the edge of the cliff to the rocks below. And with her went the Silmaril, the only price Maedhros said would be fitting for two princes such as them, heirs to the thrones of Gondolin and Doriath and the three houses of the Edain besides.

When they were alone, Elros muttered that those claims were entirely dependent on _any_ land accepting a Peredhel as a leader, and perhaps their blood was dirt to Cirdan and Maedhros and Maglor should take would they could get. They needed it, he added, with a curl of his lip at the ragged tents of the Feanorians. Sirion may have been a city of refugees, but none there had been pariahs to the extent of their captors.

Elrond replied that if the Feanorians ever had cause to think the Falathrim would not retaliate, they would be left to die unburied like their friends in Sirion. Elros turned away from him after that, and Elrond heard him weeping later.

He felt sick, then, a terrible ache down in stomach, knowing that he had hurt his brother, but also relief, because Elros would not provoke their deaths for a while longer. That brought more guilt, and he lay awake full of fear and remembered fire until Maglor came in and stroked his hair until he fell asleep.

In the morning, Maglor looked tired, and Elrond tried his hardest not to feel that a Kinslayer had sacrificed for him. With gratitude, perhaps forgiveness would come, and that sent shudders of nausea through him.

“Shape the stems of your letters like this,” Maglor said, dipping his pen into the ink and writing with the careful flourish of the Noldor of Valinor, who had the chance to spend long hours practicing calligraphy under the Trees, and Elrond nodded.

He drew it again, less shaky this time, while Elros rolled his eyes and toyed with his pen. Elrond ignored him. He knew the value of tactical retreat, of drawing his Doriathrim self inside a pretty Noldor shell.

“Now, Elros,” Maglor said, a hint of scolding in his voice. A part of Elrond’s mind remembered his mother taking a similar tone, and he tightened his grip on the pen, like he was going to break it or tear the paper with it. Elros would. He could. But someone had to be reasonable.

Someone had to stay alive.


End file.
